


we only have tomorrow (before we must move on)

by cordiallysent



Category: The SpongeBob Musical - Various/Anthony & Coulton/Jarrow
Genre: Crying, F/M, Kissing, Missing Scene, kind of, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordiallysent/pseuds/cordiallysent
Summary: our heroes before they put their plan in motion.(the space between 'tomorrow is' and 'bikini bottom day: reprise 1'.)





	we only have tomorrow (before we must move on)

**Author's Note:**

> this is some short, overly-soppy thing i wrote in september 2016, after having watched the chicago bootleg 10000x times. as such, it features a slightly different interpretation of sandy, who showed much less trepidation about stuff in the chi trial run. i have not proof-read this since it was written, so here's hoping it still reads okay!
> 
> and now, to the ficlet.

_The world will end tomorrow_ , she says. _We have to find a way_.

 

The whole town is against them -- centre square feels like no home at all. When she looks at him, she wonders if his resolve might just be failing -- abandoned by his best friend, with everyone saying _so simple, you couldn’t do it if you tried_. There’s a crease in between his eyebrows that she’s almost certain she’s never seen before, a grim set to his mouth that she doesn't like.

 

She walks him home. Least she can do, to wrap her arm around his shoulders, a half-shield against more murmured disapproval, trying to bat away those creeping whispers, trying to tell them the both of them that they’ll _fail_ , that they’ll _lose_ \-- that, worst comes to worst -- they’re _all_ going to die.

 

The walk stretches out, the silence does too. She’s not got it in her to try and make light conversation -- that’s always been _his_ forte anyway. Their sneakers kick up dust and when he looks up at his house -- she doesn’t miss the tears shining in his eyes.

 

“When I first moved here,” he says, voice all watery, “This house was brand new. Nobody had ever lived it before -- I’d never had anything _new_ before. I didn’t really have _much_ to start with, you know? Took a while.”

 

They both look up at his house, _124 Conch Street_. The pineapple, standing bright and cheerful, bright, surely sweet, something pleasant and unaware. His house can’t know it might be its last night standing. And it’s so pretty, orange all the orange-r in the very last of the setting sun. The little overgrown shrubs in the front, still showing their flowers in pinks and purples. Sandy recognises them only now -- the same he sometimes brings her when he visits. The same ones she tucks into her one vase, watering them ‘til they wilt -- though they rarely get the chance. He always brings her new ones.

 

That’s all on the verge of ending, and it’s a thought that shakes her, somehow worse than her seismograph readings.

 

He opens the door, absent-mindedly reaching for her hand, grasping air on the first try before she presses her palm to his and follows him inside.

 

He looks up at the walls, and so does she. The giant novelty fishing lure on the wall _\-- I’m just hoping to_ reel _people in!_ She remembers -- he and Patrick had found it in a thrift store. She’d watched them nail it up. She’d watched Patrick near drive that nail right through his thumb.

 

They look over everything -- that makeshift couch, the little potted plant he tends to religiously -- he’d had that even before she arrived. His TV _\--_ vintage, bubble-style, a relic from _‘68_ , way before he was born. More trouble than it was worth, but he’d bought it and loved it and begged her to fix it -- and how could she say no?

 

Blue wallpaper, and buff-brown floor. A raindrop splashes onto that floor and he turns to her suddenly. In the glaring fluorescent light, she can see the whole day’s stress etched on his face, carving lines ‘round his mouth, darkening under his eyes. It makes her heart leap to her throat, and as he grasps both her hands in his, she couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d say. _We should give up. We should keep going. We should run away. We should stay. We could still live. We’re going to die_.

 

“Sandy--” he starts, choking on the word. Floodgates tremble, but he holds them back, swallowing hard, fingers squeezing tight. “Sandy, I know you don’t think this town is -- is your _home_ . But my house -- I mean, I said it, didn’t I? It was brand new when I got here. Everything that’s in here -- _that’s_ what makes it home. And everything that’s in here -- I got it with the _people_ I love. _You_ , and Pat, and everyone. You -- _made_ this place. Do you understand why I don’t want to just leave it behind, to get _destroyed_ , washed away like it’s nothing?”

 

Sandy’s mouth twists -- for a moment, she just can’t think of what to say. Her first thought is that old line _home is anywhere, any place, as long as we’re all together_ . But that’s cruel, because she’s told him over and over -- _I’m going to leave. I’m leaving this town, I’m moving on. I’m leaving, I’m leaving_ . _Even if we save it. I’m still going to leave._

 

So that wouldn’t be fair, that hallmark platitude. Instead of saying it, she says;

 

“Yes,” and then, “are you okay?”

 

He nods, and then, after a further moment of tense silence, he tilts his chin upward, rises on his toes and presses a kiss to her mouth. It doesn’t last very long. Just a second or two of contact, the barest pressure, all hesitant, not heated. His fingers loosen around hers, and he steps back, his regular height again.

 

“Sorry,” he says -- but his eyes are hopeful, for the first time since Patrick walked out on them. Sandy’s stunned, face frozen for just long enough to see his smile falter -- the only thing she can do now is hold him. Pull him close, wrap her arms around him -- and hide her face.

 

(She’s supposed to be the strong one. She’s not a hundred percent -- but she’s pretty sure he’s never seen her cry. She doesn’t want that to change.)

 

This -- their embrace -- this lasts much longer than the kiss. She feels like -- maybe this means more. She thinks maybe he kissed her because -- because he thought that’d be what she _wanted_ . She thinks -- this might be what _he_ wanted. They’re different in that respect. Familiar with different kinds of love.

 

They break, eventually, and he finally lets go of her hands.

 

“If the world ends tomorrow, there’s something I need to tell you--”

 

“No,” she stops him, “tell me the day _after_ tomorrow.”

 

His brows furrow, head tilting -- she lifts a hand, fingers brushing his skin, palm pressed to his cheek. Barely perceptible, he turns his face to the contact a fraction. Falling to her, just gently, just a little. His breath hitches, like he’s prepared to try and say something else -- but he doesn’t. Sandy rubs his cheek, her thumb tapping out the freckles next to his nose. And then she’s stepping back, and already half out-the-door.

 

“We’re gonna pull it off,” she says. “We _will_ .” A yawn -- but there’s no time to sleep. She’s got a _long_ night ahead of her. “Get some rest. I’ll meet you in the morning.”

 

Then she turns to leave. Closes the door behind her, giving a sly little salute, a smile like it’s not the end of the world, like he didn’t just kiss her. She gets halfway down the path when he dashes after her.

 

“You’re right. We’re gonna pull it off,” he says, hands on her shoulders. He gives her a little shake. “See you tomorrow, hero.”

 

One last hug. Then they say goodnight. They say goodnight, and -- _we still have tomorrow_. Not only, but still. We  _still_  have tomorrow. We'll pull it off.  _We will._


End file.
